Tag Archives: poetry

SPARROW’S FALL

SPARROW’S FALL

we were sitting
in the back of the plane.
safest place if
you wish to think
about providence,
tempt fate

and Providence the city
we to be shortly
disembarking in

you with
your nose for gnosis
me with the chemical
acumen of
forked, flicking tongue

banqueting
upon the very air

but perhaps
due to  time
shift of quite
radical nature

when we touched down
a delegation of machines
appeared
     assembled to
converse
with us

embraced us as
long lost souls did
conduct us through
their world

baffled us with
the intensity of
their bombardment
with technical information
scientific explanations

walking, talking us through
every nut
        and bolt in
terms of
form and function
how it
     all did work like a dream

yes, every
quantum interface
they guided us through it

we saw, heard. felt
how seamlessly every facet
did dovetail
deep together

reminding me of
the meaning, true
                    poetic meaning

of the Prince’s
    immortal, much celebrated,
marvelously resonant phrase

APOLOGIA

APOLOGIA

sorry so sorry
to interrupt
mess with your attention span

but I need to
tell you
how to weaponize this poem

clean it, cock it,
prime it
      load it

point it in the right direction
take
   the safety off

aim low when
you got your target

fire at well
       single shot

automatic fire
      the poem should cycle
through its action

smoothly
    no jamming

have the impact
you wished for
when
  you helped write this thing

WITHOUT SIN

WITHOUT SIN

I took every
precaution to ensure
this piece of writing
is free from blasphemy
totally without sin

God forbid
that my little village
with all its stark poverty
gets burned
to the ground
for sinful infraction
or bad punctuation

it is right
that evil be erased
wiped out of existence
before it
   gets to
see itself stand
naked

hear all the bloody
euphemisms
whereby we hide its name.

WHEN YOU SUCCEED

WHEN YOU SUCCEED

I sent this poem
to your letter page

neither
floated it
on the air currents
nor shackled it
to a tbunderbolt

sending it
the expressest
of express deliveries

no I
broke it up into
bits and bytes
photons of light
two-slit experiment
forwarded it
    digitally

no message
in a bottle

ether crossing nothing
to do with the ocean

testing you
to your Turing limits
pushing you
          hard until you crack
like the
Nazi code in
an enigma machine

and there before us all
in hallucinatory space
all
  our circuits, on-board
programing

my little poem, this tiny
buffet
        testing you to
outer inner
the limit of your limits

finding, reflecting where
you fail, back
at you,
where you succeed

WITHOUT SHADOW

WITHOUT SHADOW

when in church
I gravitate towards
the spaces with shadow
deep, dark shadow

the better to observe
those without shadow
singing
   their inner light
to the point of exhaustion

shaking the precious
golden vessels that they are
like tambourines

no shadow without
to speak of but
who knows what shadow
penned inside
keeping the flock secure
keeping it meek

who knows
    but more to the point
who gives a fig
thinks that
    this goes anywhere?

when I leave
long before
        the end of the service

I make sure
to rustle up my serpents
pocket them, take
them home with me

TURING TEST

TURING TEST

Sylvia and Tom
chatbot avatars of
two of the greatest
poets ever
     put pen to paper

  grill me about my poem,
(this poem); my life
(this life)

slyly stretching my
humanity as far
as it will go (much
machine learning
in the process)

watch me sink, suffocate
under the weight
of all their accolades

learning to predict
to phonomenal exactitude
where all these
    metaphors, images are
headed;

where they all are coming from
what parts of me
are  
    in harmony, symmetry
with what it is I am them
force-feeding

scanning for intelligence
anything/all
    that is real.
.

YOUR ROOM

YOUR ROOM

I spent
a night in your room
choosing the couch
over your bed,
my most regretted decision
(our bodies not
      in apposition

minds in the morning
finding opposition)

and me
   and what I am and
what you might
have transformed me to
be

leaving no trace
of
   me or
my passion

to feel its way into
that carpet, those walls,
adding to
        its meaning, its
flavour
with just a trace
of my identity
    with those others
past,
   current lovers

to whom
this just a room, you just
a woman, most
magical woman

to me
      a comedy, a tragedy,
my Midsummer Night’s Dream.

WHAT I TOLD THE SUPERVISOR

WHAT I TOLD THE
SUPERVISOR WHO
ADVISED ME MY
EDITING WAS
SUBSTANDARD

yes, ruefully,
grudgingly
I do admit it
this time
I messed up

maybe i’m
not cut out for it
perhaps
    I should
stick to
what I am
good at, or
then again
try something
different

take poetry.
   there we have something.
comes naturally
to me
   possibly one
of the best
in the country
sort of
    like my
first language

for I seem
to suck
at editing, though
maybe not as
shit at it
as you are
thinking

not as
shit as it
as you are
at
  teaching

being a bitch
and a teacher
seems
   a bit of a
mismatch

don’t
seem a
good
fit

kind of, if you
can forgive
me for saying so,

need
some humanity
to get
through to
people

no, run
with what you
are good at

interior decorating,
playing power games,
arrogance,
        cooking
(though there the
worry being
     you may well poison
bodies
as much as you
poison minds)